


Urbi et Orbi

by Star_flaming, UnLibrePenseur



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_flaming/pseuds/Star_flaming, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnLibrePenseur/pseuds/UnLibrePenseur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pazzi conspiracy has just been defeated, and the Basilisk is on it's way across the ocean--without Leonardo. AU/extended version exploring what could have happened if things had gone differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urbi et Orbi

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: WE LOVE THIS SHOW VERY MUCH. 
> 
> But....
> 
> If we were writers we would not have done a lot of things and gone in a completely different direction. Therefore, we have decided to do our own Great Rewrite to change those things. Enjoy--ça sera le mal qui fait bien.

Their legs were still mostly bound, but their arms were free, and it was with no small amount of pride that he swam his way up. In doing so, he did--mostly--attempt to keep from elbowing his fellow captive in the face, though there was a certain extent to which he felt he ought to do just that for all the hell this woman had put Leonardo through. They broke surface, gasping and choking for their long denied air.

“Hiding a hairpin in a kiss, genius. Leo’s a fool for ever letting you go,” Zoroaster said as he regained his breath, treading water to stay above the surface against the weight on their legs. “I’ve never been more fully erect.”

Lucrezia returned Zoroaster’s suggestive look with one of contempt. “Leonardo mentioned you were a master lock pick. Do you want to finish the job?”

Zoroaster waggled his eyebrows at her. “Gladly,” he said, and went to kiss her.

“I meant the chains!” she snapped, twisting her head away.

“Oh right.” Taking a breath, he dived back under to completely separate them. To his complete annoyance, Lucrezia was swimming with her legs just as much as her arms, making it near impossible to get to the lock that kept them bound. Coming back up for another breath, he snapped with no small amount of annoyance, “Just hold still for one second!”

Lucrezia rolled her eyes. “If I do that I’ll drown, and I’ll take you with me,” she snapped back.

“And if you don’t we’ll never get free and you’ll still fucking drown.” _No one understands the delicate art of lock picking_. “Just trust me, okay. Two seconds. Hold your breath if you have to.”

In all truth it took roughly four more seconds than his estimated length to get them free, but thankfully Lucrezia didn’t comment on that, just merely kicked him in the face as she swam away. Coming up for air again he used his first breath to shout after her “You could wait for me, since I, you know, saved your ass with my skill! … Bitch.” He added the last word under his breath for his own satisfaction.

“We don’t have time for that,” she called back, twisting to paddle backwards. “Do you see the ship? Riario is already sailing off with your friend, may I remind you. Best thing to do is go back and get Leonardo.”

“Oh, sure, now you want to go to Leonardo; _now_ you want to help us, since your little accomplice had you thrown overboard. You think switching sides is really that easy?”

For a split second, Lucrezia hesitated, and Zoroaster felt a malicious satisfaction, but then she opened her mouth again. “I’m not switching sides.” Zoroaster scoffed in disbelief, and she continued. “I know you don’t think so, but I always have been on your side.”

“No you haven’t. You’ve always been on your own side.”

“Do you want to tread water forever? We need to get back to shore no matter what side you think I’m on. Come on.” And she began to swim, leaving Zoroaster behind.

“Shore’s that way!” he called, pointing the opposite way. She ignored him and with a muttered, “Oh for fuck’s sake…” proceeded to follow her.

 

* * *

 

Beyond the walls of Andrea’s workshop, screamed surging mobs of angry Florentines who, frankly, did not even know why they were angry. Some understood the politics and some understood only that they had free pass to loot and steal and kill so long as the rest of their fellow citizens attacked and killed Medici guards. But safe inside the forgotten artisan shop, Lorenzo de Medici held a knife above Leonardo’s chest, leaning all his weight down in a blind, jealous attempt at murdering the one who slept with the mistress he loved. The only things keeping Leonardo da Vinci from telling Saint Peter what his successor was up to were his own hands, Vanessa, and Andrea himself.

“Magnifico, you have been wounded, you must rest,” Andrea coaxed, his voice mellow in an attempt to keep the First Citizen from killing his pupil.

“Where is Giuliano?” roared Lorenzo only, too many conflicting thoughts rushing through his mind, keeping him from focusing on any one thing and making him even more dangerous than usual.

“Giuliano fought bravely,” assured Vanessa stepping forward, unnervingly reminded of when she had gone to help her Sisters at the Convent of St. Anthony. “But he was slain. I’m sorry, my lord.” The news seemed to suck all energy out of Lorenzo and he released his grip from the knife, falling to the side off the makeshift hammock.

“Take me home,” he commanded in a voice broken and rough.

Leonardo shook his head. “It won’t be that simple.”

“The streets are perilous,” Andrea explained, since explaining to anyone who couldn’t keep up wasn’t Leonardo’s area of expertise. “The officers of the night are helpless to stop people from burning homes and looting shops. You do have Medici support, but the Pazzi’s grow stronger by the hour, and Urbino’s forces stand outside the city.”

“I need to see my city.” It was Vanessa who helped Lorenzo stand fully, while Andrea helped pull Leonardo off the hanging plank of wood.

“Come upstairs, then, if you must,” Leonardo grunted, leaning heavily on Andrea. In this manner he attempted to pull Andrea towards the staircase, and Andrea could do naught but follow, nodding to the blanket on a chair as he went. Vanessa waved Il Magnifico along and grabbed the blanket, following all of them. Catching up to the ruler of her city, she unfolded the warm wool covering and placed it around his shoulders. He nodding his thanks in return as Leonardo peered out the window to the rioting masses below.

“They’re rebelling against all authority,” he murmured, astounded by how quickly civilization could fall to absolute chaos.

Lorenzo approached, looking out with sadness upon those he ruled who were killing and looting. “My family spent generations building this republic,” he said, voice raw in grief, unable to watch any longer, while Leonardo couldn’t look away. “And now at the drop of a sword the people devour each other like swine.”

“They need a leader,” Leonardo said.

“I never wanted to lead.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you want. Fate made you a leader,  accept your role or Florence is lost.” Leonardo was tired, so tired, of fate dictating everything. His own fate to find the Book of Leaves, Lorenzo’s fate of ruling, it seemed as if no one had any say in anything in the world anymore. If he sounded harsh he couldn’t care anymore, he felt like nothing more than a parrot now, repeating what the Turk, what the Abyssinian, what everyone had ever said to him in the past year. If he didn’t accept his role and find the Book all would be lost, if Lorenzo didn’t accept his role and rule the city all would be lost...which was worse? To be forced along the path fate chose for you or to have no purpose in the world? For once, he’d very much like to try out the second.

“Florence _is_ lost, Da Vinci, and I have no reason to win it back. I have no heir, no brother… I have no future to offer the people.” Lorenzo looked utterly defeated, the shell of a man who once knew greatness and now saw before him only a void and no hope of avoiding it.

And in that moment, Vanessa knew she had to tell him, for the good of Florence, that tranquility be restored and deaths lessened. There was still the overhanging fear that if she should be found out by the Pazzi’s or their supporters she should be put to death in any number of creative ways, but it was more important to give hope to the rightful leader than to cower in the back rooms of Andrea’s workshop and hope no one ever suspect that the child was more than some apprentice’s. Taking a deep steadying breath to bolster her bravery she put her hands over her stomach and said, “My lord-- “

“Vanessa, is this wise?’ Andrea interrupted her, but she stepped away from him with a firm look of determination.

“Perhaps you do have a future for Florence, my lord.” Lorenzo scoffed, but Vanessa would not give in. She reached out for his arm and, suppressing any doubts which arose and thinking only of Florence, she said whilst guiding Lorenzo’s hand to her belly, “Giuliano’s fire burns still within me.” And there it was, understanding and hope in Lorenzo’s eyes, not a single moment of contempt for that his brother had slept with a model and barwench. Nothing but a light that his brother wasn’t gone forever. It was a soothing balm to Vanessa’s fears, and even though she noticed the look on Leonardo’s face--one of surprise and several other emotion she couldn’t name--she could only smile at Il Magnifico.

“Is this true?” Leonardo asked, voice soft.

“It is,” she said softly, glancing to Leonardo whilst Lorenzo stared at her with that singular light in his eyes, for emotion overwhelmed him. He declared with nothing but fierce purpose that he must return to the palace, and for that Vanessa admired him.

 

* * *

 

The first moment her feet brushed the sandy bottom, Lucrezia was nearly ready to just give up and walk. But if she did that she would either drown or be mocked by the man who swam behind her. So on she swam until she could actually stand on the ground, not only brush it with a toe. Near completely collapsing face first onto the beach, Lucrezia sank to the ground and let the muscles in her legs and arms spasm as they wished, simply resting. Beside her she heard Zoroaster do the same but with the ever so elegant addition of, “Oh, fuckkk,” as he dragged his feet through the sand to carry himself to a tree upon which he might lean.

“And you wanted to swim the other way,” she muttered under her breath. Allowing herself a few more moments to breathe and relish not having to keep moving, she pushed herself up again, stumbling to her feet as her legs protested being forced to move again. “We have to get back to Florence.”

“Really? We _just_ got on land,” said Zoroaster. “I think there are other things to be concerned about right now.”

“As important as Riario sailing away with all your maps and your astrolabe?”

“Yes. Like the sand that’s covering both of us. It’s only been a few hours, he’s not already in the Vault.” He knew he was right, she just had no desire to admit it. “And, honestly we’ll need new clothes.”

“Do you see any cloth merchants around with clothes for sale?”

“Well if you spent _any_ time with your husband…” A bolt of anger crossed her face at that, but it vanished just as quickly.

“We’ll find a town, take some off a clothesline and leave our own in return,” she finally said, legs shaking as she started walking inland.

“You’re not going now, are you?”

“ _Yes I am._ ”

“And here I thought you had a bit of sense in you.” She didn’t stop and Zo let out a long groan but forced himself to his feet and to follow, loudly complaining as he did. “You know, why is it that you get to keep wandering off and I’m forced to follow?”

“Because I’m a woman and you, apparently, have an ounce of respectability so you come with me to make sure I’m okay.” Lucrezia did not even glance backwards when she said, “You men don’t really have as much power as you like to think, do you?”

Zoroaster cursed under his breath and stomped after her in almost a childlike manner, but admittedly he had never been more turned on. “Do you have any idea which way Florence is from here? Or are you just guessing?”

“We’ll figure that out when we find a town.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Zoroaster said. “You are literally just guessing, and I’m just following you around.”

“Is that any different from the rest of your life?”

Zoroaster opened his mouth and closed it and ruffled his hair.

“Point taken.”

They walked along in silence for a long while, both being rather too fatigued by the long swim and the further exertion of physical energy to want to expend yet more by bickering with one another. The sun had begun to reach for the horizon by the time they crested a hill and saw a city in the distance. As the steeples and bell towers slowly became visible, it had been long enough for Zoroaster to ask, “Is this how you got your husband? You know, the one you never spend time with? Just made him have to marry you to make sure you don’t wander off to your death?”

“Yes of course,” said Lucrezia, rolling her eyes. “My cousin chained Niccolò and I up and pitched us off a gangplank, that’s how marriages are arranged after all. In the eyes of most noble families we’re married now.”

“Sorry, did you say Riario is your _cousin_?”

“Nepotism is not just for the arts and for cardinals. Even if you don’t want to be part of the family. Look, there’s a house with a clothesline, go take two of the shirts.” Still baffled at the relation, Zoroaster stared at her a long moment before moving to the clothesline she gestured to muttering a mild swear under his breath.

“You want to wear men’s clothes?” he asked.

“If that’s the only option: yes. Just take them.”

“Can’t take them yourself? Worried you’ll lose a hand to the law of this city? You’ll never catch Magnifico’s attention again.” Zoroaster glanced back if for nothing more than the satisfaction of seeing her look of indignation.

“Zoroaster you narrowly avoided drowning yesterday--thanks to me--do you _really_ want to risk strangulation not a day later?”

A scowl twisting his mouth, Zoroaster snatched two of the shirts and tossed them both at her before stalking towards the city proper, strangely proud that this time Lucrezia had to follow _him_.

“Ahem?” She called after him.

“What now?” Zoroaster groaned, turning around.

“You really expect us to just walk around wearing shirts?”

“Oh, for the love of God, get trousers then!” Zoroaster gesticulated wildly at the clothes line.

“You would leave the work for the woman to finish, wouldn’t you?” Lucrezia sneered, plucking two pairs of trousers off the line and marching over to Zoroaster with a barely suppressed grin. “Well come on, then, it’s getting dark.”

Zoroaster could but glare at Lucrezia in complete shock for that comment, thinking, _What a bitch! How dare she imply that!_ Having decided that not only was Leonardo insane for thinking himself in love with this woman, but also that he would make this walk back to Florence a living hell for her, he followed.

 

* * *

 

It was already the night of Easter Monday, swiftly approaching Tuesday at that, and Clarice felt as if it were nothing more than a cruel dragging on of the preceding, bloody days. She had barely slept at all; rather she spent the time ordering the organization of defense of the palazzo, soothing her daughters as best she could, trying in vain to reassert authority over those men of the Bank who crept their way past the mobs to besiege her in private (and having those who came with knives taken care of). And even so she was incapable of sleep. Kneeling instead at the foot of her bed, she prayed earnestly, begging for the life of her husband and asking that the mobs be kept at bay for just one more day. But a screaming horde outside the walls, she knew, wouldn’t disperse easily.

Understandable then, that when she heard her husband’s voice echoing over the piazza a thousand times louder than it should have been, she thought that it was a product of a sleep deprived mind--and one constantly on the watch for the death that was being promised a thousand times over outside her doors.

“ _...embraced Francesco Pazzi and his family as my friends. I thought them noble citizens…_ ”

Standing shakily, Clarice went to the window, hearing Lorenzo’s voice all the clearer as he spoke improbably loud ( _Probably some feat created by da Vinci_ , she found herself thinking), tears building in her eyes in relief, a hand closing in a fist around the cross she wore. He was safe. _Thanks be to the Lord for preserving my husband_. The prayer restored her confidence and composure, and she turned away, shedding the robe she had worn over her dress as she went, letting it drop where it would.

Lorenzo’s voice echoed through the palazzo, and all around she could see maids and manservants halted in all motion to hear it, and guards and watchmen already assembling as if it was ordering them to do so, not condemning the Pazzis and persuading the Florentines back to their side. “My Lady,” called Dragonetti as she approached. “The Officers of the Night are ready and waiting.”

“Very good,” she said shortly. “They won’t have much rest this night.” Now Lorenzo had finished his speech, and those who once screamed for the deaths of Clarice and her children were instead calling out “Palle! Palle!”

As it reached a deafening crescendo, Clarice led Dragonetti and his officers to the doors that had been barred shut for far too long. Now, though, they opened again, and she could see the people cheering for her family. “Now, Dragonetti,” she said with more composure than she had felt even five minutes prior, but an equal amount of hatred, “now we apprehend the Pazzi traitors.”

“My pleasure,” answered the captain behind her, and as she watched, the officers who kept the city safe headed out among the crowd to murder and arrest those who had stood against the Medici family.

But her interest did not lie in the pain and death that would be inflicted that night, it was instead in her husband whom she could see riding across the piazza with a cloak thrown about his shoulders, almost like Christ on Palm Sunday. When he finally reached her, she was as composed as ever, even at the sight of the bloody bandage about his neck. _He came so close to dying,_ she thought, repressing a shiver. _If da Vinci has saved Florence yet again by saving my husband, he shall have to be rewarded quite handsomely._

“My dear lady,” croaked Lorenzo, his voice forced into a tone of false vitality. “I commend you on your strength and courage in holding our home against those who would seek our life.”

Her eyes closed but a moment, remembering how terrified she had been losing Maddalena and having to give the order to poison her own girls if the worst should come to pass. But those terrors were past now, and the three girls were waiting breathlessly inside to see their father again. Bowing her head in acknowledgement, she took his hand when he finally dismounted the horse and said simply, “Welcome home, husband.” There was such a look in Lorenzo’s face then that Clarice wondered in the back of her mind if Lucrezia Donati hadn’t indeed been killed by Riario and now Lorenzo had no choice but to adhere to their marriage vows now.

Casting the thought from her mind, she helped him inside, to where Maria, Maddalena, and Beatrice awaited. She noticed that as he came, he waved in alongside him none other than Andrea del Verrocchio and Leonardo da Vinci, and she couldn’t help the little laugh that burst out of her. For the last year, the lives of the whole city had depended on these two artists; why _shouldn’t_ they have been the ones to bring her husband home? And as the girls embraced Lorenzo, weeping for joy to see him again, Clarice addressed the two artisans, though she wanted but to ignore them and simply weep for joy like her daughters.

“I thank you,” she said, “both of you, for saving my husband’s life. Florence has survived again because of you. Tell me: do you get bored, saving this Republic time and again?”

“Far from it,” assured da Vinci with a bit of a breathless laugh.

“We do what we can and that alone, my lady,” said Verrocchio, as always infinitely humbler than the war engineer.

“Spend the night here,” said Lorenzo suddenly, turning from the girls. It wasn’t a suggestion. “You’ll find no peace on the streets tonight. Tomorrow you can explain how you brought me here.”

“A tale I am eager to hear,” said Clarice. “But not tonight. We have plenty beds, Maestros, you may take your pick.” Dismissing them to be led away by servants, Clarice went to her family again. “I kept hearing people claim you dead, I almost believed them,” she told Lorenzo, holding his hand in both of hers again.

“I am very grateful that you didn’t,” murmured Lorenzo, lifting her hands and pressing a kiss to them, gallant and at the same time fond. “And how have you fared, my girls?” he asked, turning to them.

“It was so frightening, father; Fabrizio had us drink lots of hot milk and honey so we could sleep,” Beatrice informed him, and Clarice swore to reward that servant for having prepared the girls for if he should have had to give them the poison, that they would not know and would go peacefully to God.

“As we should all be going to sleep ourselves. It has been a long few days, and we need all the rest we can get. These days aren’t done yet.” Lorenzo nodded to the girls’ nurse, who gathered them and brought them back up to their room.

Now alone with him, Clarice, still holding his hands, told him, “Go rest, I’ll have a physician found--Moses if he still lives. I must wait for the traitors to be taken in by the Officers of the Night.”

“And I must meet Leonardo. I have much to ask him.”

“ _Tomorrow_ , husband. Ask him all you must tomorrow.” There was a look in his eyes that she hadn’t seen directed to her in quite some time; it had been reserved for Signora Donati alone, and it was overwhelmingly pleasant to see it again. Nodding his agreement, Lorenzo let one of their guards assist him to bed while Clarice made her way to his study to await word of which traitors had been arrested and which had been killed by the mobs. And if, while she sat there, a few sobbing breaths of relief and happiness shook her, then that wasn’t for anyone to know.

 

* * *

 

Aboard _The Basilisk_ all was well; for some days the carrack had seen nothing but clear skies and made good headway in her voyage. It was after midday and clouds drifted across the sky, creating patterns of light and dark, and though there had been no signs of any bad weather to come, the first mate of the ship, one Vinzez Filippeschi, kept glancing at the horizon as he walked the deck, nervous that perilous storms would accost the ship with little to no notice. She was a strong ship, but strong meant nothing in the face of waves large enough to turn her completely over. _That_ , thought he, _is the bane of any sailor’s existence, and his greatest fear. It is certainly mine._ He stepped past a small group of sailors passing the time with a game of dice, for there was little to attend to presently--the wind was steady and the course set west, thank the Lord for the Trade Winds. As he did so, he tuned in to their low conversation, for it is known that if ever there was a time when a crewman revealed most, it was in game with his companions, and one needs only listen discreetly to keep a handle on the men, and so on the ship.

“...e’ry bloody time, I’m tellin’ yeh!” Grumbled one man with a furtive glance at the first mate, who artfully turned away, appearing not to hear the conversation.

“Wat’s the ma’er wi’ the lad--dun’ eat meat?” Chortled one of the men in response.

“I heard vat’s actually ve trufe,” said a third man, raising his eyebrows in a significant way.

“Can’ be,” said the second man.

“Iddiz!” Insisted the third man loudly.

The first man shushed them and recommenced in low tones: “Who bloody cares we’er i’s true or no’? The poin’ is, i’s a righ’ was’e of food, iddiz. If the li’le fucker keeps doin’ vis we’re gonna run oudda food for usselves.”

“We ough’a tell someone,” said the third soldier angrily, “before i’s too la’e.”

The first man grunted in agreement.

The first mate prepared himself to hear the shuffle of boots and fabric as the men approached him with the problem, upon which he had already begun to think and devise a strategy.

“No, we can’. Ve coun’ is a respec’able man, we ‘ave no righ’ to go complainin’ abou’ ‘is prisoner,” said the second man quickly.

“If ‘e’s wastin’ all of our food, ven, yeah, we do,” insisted the third man.

“No, Luca is righ’. We may no’ li’e it, but ‘e’s a count an’ if ‘e wan’s ‘is prisoner to be fed, ven ve prisoner is gonna get fed,” said the first man.

If the conversation continued, Vinzez didn’t hear it, his feet taking him around the mainmast and back towards the cabins. If anyone should know about this dissent among the crew, even as minor as it was, it was the captain. And if the captain should just happen to be meeting with their supercargo and navigator to discuss endlessly the route and winds and stars then all the better.

From within the captain’s study, as Vinzez prepared to knock and bring the news to those who had to hear, voices could clearly be heard. It was again the old argument of needing the heading but insistence that the heading was in code and had to be decoded first and the heading could easily be changed once they had that but please keep heading west, Captain. At Vinzez’s knock the voices fell silent, and the captain’s voice made strong with ire called him to enter.

“Captain Denali, Pontecorvo,” greeted Vinzez, nodding to the men standing around charts of stars and ocean on the central table, “your grace.”

“Filippeschi, do you need something?” asked the captain.

Vinzez closed the door behind him with a creak and advanced into the room. “Captain, I just overheard some of the sailors talking about something which I believe ought to be brought to your attention.” He glanced sideways at Count Riario, who gave a polite little smile.

“Should we return to this business later, then, Captain?” he asked in that quiet way he had.

“Yes, we can return to this tonight,” said Denali, preparing to see his navigator and supercargo to the door.

“Just a moment,” said Vinzez. “I believe this is something for his grace to hear as well.”

Count Riario’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly, and he had a look on his face of mild bemusement, and behind that, curiosity and even--unless Vinzez was reading it wrong--fear. Fear of what, that Vinzez did not know, nor did he especially _want_ to know what Count Riario feared, the man _had_ , after all, had two people thrown to their deaths in some twisted christening of the voyage. Execution never sat well with Vinzez, to say the least.

The captain pursed his lips, but consented, for he trusted his first mate completely. “Very well then.” Their navigator, Marco Pontecorvo, departed to puzzle over this coded heading again, closing the door behind him, and only then did the captain say, “Right, what is this matter?”

“It is not yet anything of too great importance, but I believe it could become such at a later time, if you understand me, captain,” said Vinzez.

Captain Denali nodded knowingly. “I see. And?”

Vinzez glanced again at the count, trying to ascertain something in his expression which would betray his potential reactions, which Vinzez always did with unfamiliar men. This man, however, was exceedingly difficult to read, for he was the greatest betrayer of emotions, but there were so many at once that Vinzez could never tell which were applicable to a situation. Perhaps that was how he hid them. “The men are saying that his grace’s prisoner won’t eat; that he throws his food away without hardly touching it, and that it’s a waste. They even fear starvation if we do not stop giving the prisoner good food to waste,” he explained, looking every now and again at the count, whose expression changed so many times that Vinzez failed to read it.

“How long has this been going on, Filippeschi?” Riario asked, brows slightly furrowed. _Why is Nico not eating?_

“As far as I can tell, it has been happening since the boy was imprisoned, your grace,” replied Filippeschi.

Riario folded his lips for a moment and glanced at the captain. _I did not expect this of him…._ “If you’ll excuse me, sirs, I believe I’ll go have a word with him.” He nodded, and made almost to smile, but decided against it and departed, making for the lower deck and the brig.

Down there, the sounds of the ocean, of water splashing against the creaking wood and rushing past as the carrack split through her, grew louder as the noise of working sailors grew quieter, and in the dark--for sunlight barely managed to peek through the cracks in the floor of the deck--Riario felt confined and suppressed and comfortable. He could only imagine how Nico felt, but it was a necessary step, to keep him imprisoned. A heartbroken man was more dangerous than even an angry one, after all.

As soon as his eyes adjusted to the gloom and his nose to the foul stench of food and sea-water and human filth, he made his way to Nico, sitting in a cage with his head down and his hands folded. He looked like a man in prayer in this way, almost innocent, but Riario knew him to be unfaithful, for that is what happens when one spends time with Leonardo Da Vinci. He looked upon the ground outside Nico’s cell prison and saw the day’s meal lying dejected and untouched. His lips twitched in thought. “Don’t you care for cured meats?” he asked. “Or are you so loyal to da Vinci that you’ll starve for him?” If Filippeschi was right Nico could be forcing not only himself to death but the crew to mutiny and even if he was cruel about it, Riario would make sure that did not come to pass. Cruelty was sometimes the only way to make certain of a favorable outcome, that he knew full well. “Although, will you ever even see him again?”

“He’s rescuing Florence,” croaked Nico, voice made rough from either dehydration or grief, and it wasn’t clear which.

“He is rescuing Lorenzo.”

“Lorenzo _is_ Florence.”

“Lorenzo is a purse string,” he corrected. Nico simply looked away, and Riario averted his own eyes for a moment as he thought of what to say next. The boy was too loyal to Florence and to da Vinci still, and perhaps breaking that loyalty was the only thing to do. “Nico, you took the key to the Vault of Heaven from me, something da Vinci himself could not manage, and yet he chose to save Lorenzo over you.” Nico said nothing in return, and Riario hesitated only a moment before saying, “I’d say you’re undervalued. As I was at your age.” Quietly from their corner of his mind memories of just the same began to raise their heads, watching and listening as he continued on, waiting a chance to strike. “Like me, you will learn your worth in time.”

At that, Nico suddenly came to life again, leaning fully against the bars, and spitting, “I’m _not_ like you! If you think I’ll help you get to the Vault of Heaven, you’re wrong! I’d die first!”

Riario couldn’t help the small laugh that forced it’s way past his lips, nor could he help the smile. There was the Nico he had known from when he first kidnapped him, willful and spiteful and a liar as well. “Nico,” he chided fondly, “the Widow’s Tear has already shown us otherwise.” _I know your will to survive and you know it too. There is a time and a place for loyalty but that is not when faced with starvation._

“Why are you keeping me alive?” asked Nico, his voice quiet again as he watched Riario begin to leave. At the question, the man stopped and turned, his eyes darting about the cramped brig as if seeking for the answer himself in some shadowy corner.

“Because I like you,” he finally said, looking back at the boy. “But my liking you won’t keep the crew from throwing you overboard if you keep wasting food. It may surprise you, but I have no authority here.” The boy let go of the metal bars, and began to move back to the corner he liked to inhabit best, curling back into himself. Riario pursed his lips and had to look away from the sight, for he remembered so many times from his early days when he sat in just the same way, dejected, scared, determined. _Too much like me at his age._ He had to leave at that thought, disturbed by how looking at him was almost like looking into a magic mirror that could show him the past.

Whatever Nico had taken from the conversation, Riario could only hope it would mean he would stop purposefully wasting all food given to him. Now there was just the problem of the growing ire of the captain and navigator being left without a heading.

**  
**

* * *

 

Night had fallen over Rome, providing the darkness all those within its walls needed for sleep or unsavory dealings. And that was true of the Vatican as well, for deep inside its hidden rooms, a less than holy meeting was taking place, presided over by the Pope himself. The Duke Frederico Montefeltro of Urbino newly returned from Florence and the disastrous conspiracy there for this meeting alone, while his troops were already on the return to his Duchy, sat beside him, turning over a fused skull of two babies in his hands.

“I’m told our awaited guest has a penchant for such curiosities,” commented Sixtus, eyeing the thing with curiosity.

“It’s said he keeps some sort of ghastly museum in his dungeon,” Frederico said, placing the gruesome gift back in its glass case.

“Surely the museum is apocryphal,” the pope said with a distinct feeling of disappointment. He would have much loved to see the intrigues that must exist in such a museum. _Things even I couldn’t imagine, to be sure,_ he thought wistfully.

“But Ferrante’s reputation as a ferocious bloodthirsty warlord is not.”

At that moment the doors opened, admitting the King of Naples and whoever else he had deigned to bring with him--all trusted not to let slip a single word of what was about to be said. In the front walked a fierce-looking man with two swords strapped to his back: one Sixtus immediately coded as fitting Urbino’s description.

“His dress bespeaks a warrior,” he said with no small amount of admiration.

“That’s the son, Alfonso. Behind him is the king.” Indeed an aging man stepped to stand beside the first, a man who carried no weapon.

 _I would that I had a son like this boy. Perhaps then I would already own Florence,_ thought Sixtus. Instead of dwelling on his own misfortunes, he opted to call the guests out on theirs. “This is your warlord? He looks more like a bookkeeper.”

Their attention was drawn to Captain Grunwald, who had escorted the newcomers in and now spoke, saying in his heavily accented Tuscan: “May I present His Majesty, King Ferrante of Naples, and his son, Alfonso, Duke of Calabria.”

“You’ll forgive us for not kneeling and kissing the ring,” the king said as the Captain moved to stand guard at the door. “I too am anointed by God.”

“And are you also Christ’s vicar here on earth?” sneered the Pope, enflamed by the insolence of this man. “His holy sign that He will come again?”

“It matters not,” was all Ferrante said in return.

Sixtus wanted little more than to take the king by the back of the neck and force him to kneel, but he so desperately needed allies that he swallowed his pride and said: “Down to business then. As the only king on the Italian peninsula, you understand our need for stability.”

“We command the largest standing army in Italy,” spoke up Alfonso. “It is _we_ who assure stability.”

_And it is for that reason and that reason alone that I need you enough to put up with such disrespect from you. If you were indeed my own son, I would break you for talking to me so._

“We also command a sizeable force,” Urbino put in.

“Flock of mercenaries.”

Sixtus gave a subtle gesture ordering Frederico to remain seated and not to provoke or engage further. _I do not need dissent in my ranks as well as a challenge to my authority from them. Winning this petty skirmish has been made difficult enough by that thrice damned artisto; he needs no help._

“Rome has her priests, Florence her art, and Genoa her trade, but it is Naples and our forces who have been tasked by God to be a first line of defense against the Ottomans,” said Ferrante, moving forward.

 _Oh, and I suppose you now speak for God rather than I: his voice on this Earth?_ Sixtus’ patience was wearing thin. “You know the tyrant Lorenzo de’ Medici and his heretic war engineer Leonardo da Vinci openly flout us,” he said.

“I’ve known Lorenzo since he was a child,” said Alfonso, stepping to stand just beside his father. “He’s an unscrupulous villain who’s a little too proud of his prick.”

In response to his son’s unasked for opinion, Ferrante said nothing, but from his shirt removed a large flat shell and a tooth, holding them up for Alfonso to see.

Sixtus watched with interest as Ferrante spun the tooth, wondering what on earth this little show was. Something in the action visibly frightened the son, who spoke in a rush, saying, “I’m sorry, I misspoke. Holy Father, disregard what I said!” Alfonso then fled the room.

 _I must learn this method; perhaps it can produce better results from my useless son where my affection and punishment have failed,_ Sixtus thought in admiration, impressed by the rapidity and completeness of Alfonso’s submission, though he kept his face neutral.

“He knows better than to be here when the tooth falls,” said the king mildly. Sixtus suspected that it was meant to be an underhanded threat, but he did not fear this man; he was the most powerful man in Christendom, whatever this Neapolitan king might like to think. He had more influence over everything, and better guards, better assassins. _Though Riario is not nearly as easily curbed as Alfonso, my son is more controlled and therefore more lethal; at least we both have that advantage._

Ferrante noted the fused skull then, and stepped forth as he asked, “Where did you find such an interesting specimen?”

“Consider it a gift,” said Sixtus smoothly, his confidence reinvigourated and boosted now that he could take control. “One of many to come.” Ferrante picked up the skull and turned it over in his hands, inspecting it as Sixtus continued, “Lorenzo and his regime must be eroded from within--to keep the armies of Milan and Venice from allying against us. Once you have helped us seize Florence, the other secular states will fall in line and into the control of the godly state of Naples.”

The promise of so much more land and power seemed to intrigue him, and Ferrante joined the other two heads of state at the table as he said, setting the skull carefully inside the glass case, “You seek an alliance against Florence. How may we be of service?”

A smile found its way onto Sixtus’ face. _Finally, I am getting results. And on my own terms._ He said, “There is a Papal ship in the port of Pisa carrying slaves to Genoa. If your brave son travels there under both the Neapolitan and Papal flags, the Republic of Florence will be cowed by our alliance. Lorenzo is a heathen, but he’s not a fool. We will apply unrelenting pressure until he does what’s best for his people and surrenders.” He watched Ferrante’s face carefully for an expression, a sign, and finally was rewarded by a slight nod. It was miniscule, barely there, but Sixtus knew that no matter what the Neapolitan king said thereafter, whatever arguments he might make, he was impressed with the plan, and with the reward. Sixtus knew he had succeeded in procuring this alliance. _I cannot fail to rid myself of those damned Medici’s and their pet artisto now. Florence is mine._

 

* * *

 

“You never know when you’re going to have to defend yourself, Nico. Your artista won’t always be there to save you,” Riario said over his shoulder as he ascended onto the deck. _Honestly, I hardly understand his obstinance, he thought, squinting against the sun. Why would he want to remain dependant on da Vinci?_

“--brining’ us nofin’ but bad luck, you are,” sneered a sailor, just in front of Riario, cutting off his train of thought. At first he thought the sailor had been addressing him and he grew indignant. Then he realized that the sailor had been speaking to Zita and his indignance grew swiftly to anger. “Dunno why the captain even lettchoo on...well I could ‘azard a guess--”

“Might I suggest you don’t finish that sentence,” Riario said, stepping just in front of Zita, shielding her from the man’s view.

“’s bad luck, ‘aving a woman aboard,” insisted the sailor, a burly man with angry grizzled features.

“And it is a bad decision to insult her while we are in such close quarters on this ship.”

“You’re sailin’ us ta our deaths, ‘n all she’ll do is make it come sooner!”

“If anything will kill us, it will not be her presence but an act of God. Go back to work, and do not continue questioning her virtue unless you wish to share the fate of those at the start of our voyage…” The threat was real and the man clearly knew it, for he turned and stormed away, pausing only to spit at Riario’s feet. Once he was gone, Riario turned to Zita and asked, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” she said, giving him a curious regard. “They were only words. I could barely understand him, anyway. Would you really have thrown him overboard?”

Riario just gave her a little smile--barely a twitch of the lips--and gestured for her to walk with him. “Have you begun yet to regret coming along on this, ah, wild goose chase?”

“Do you expect me to, your Grace?” Zita trailed her fingers along the railing and stared up into Riario’s eyes.

“I had thought perhaps you would come to; especially with such dismal treatment,” Riario admitted, studying Zita’s face carefully. She looked almost as if she was holding something back.

“On the contrary, I am rather pleased with my choice to come,” she said, turning her face away, looking out upon the vast ocean. Riario was still sure she was not revealing everything to him and opened his mouth to say as much when she asked, “How is the boy?”

Perhaps he should have expected her to be concerned for Nico, but Riario felt a bit shocked by the question. For a moment he knew not how to reply. She had barely met the boy, after all.

“Forgive me, your Grace, I had not intended to pry--”

“No, do not apologize. I sought but to form a response.” Riario almost touched her shoulder, but stopped himself in a moment of confusion. Where had such an impulse come from? The vague ideas which gathered to answer the question scared Riario, so he decided to ignore the whole situation and answer Zita. “Nico is...doing better. Eating some more. But he still refuses to accept the truth of himself.”

“Truth of himself?” she echoed, sounding confused. “I don’t understand.”

“He’s dependent on a man who isn’t even here, and refuses to realize he’s more than capable of taking care of himself.”

“Nico followed da Vinci didn’t he? I’m not surprised he would still follow the man. From what I’ve heard he’s quite...charming.” Riario gave her a look, and she simply smiled in return before a concerned look grew on her face. “You said he was eating some more, but not all?”

“Not all, no,” answered Riario, halting and turning to look down at the waves the ship was ploughing. “Not to starvation, and he’ll eat so long as I’m there, but left to himself, half his meal ends up on the ground.” Privately, he wondered why Nico would eat at all while he was there, it wasn’t as if he were pleasant company.

“Well if he does not want to eat…” Zita said, shrugging her shoulders, “why make him?”

“Because the crew is, ah, upset with how wasteful he is. Much the same as they are upset about your presence. But there is nothing they can do or say to make me stop feeding him; I would not be cruel to the boy. I want only to teach him,” Riario said, clenching his fist around his rosary in his pocket. “But how to get him to see that…” he muttered more pensively to himself.

“You wish to teach him and that is a noble intent, and you feed him despite how this crew is angered by it. But there is a story I heard as a girl of a brother who saves his sister from being killed by their father, but when she wished to marry a sorcerer she had her brother killed.” Riario turned to her, surprised, but all she did was shrug again and say, “Noble intents sometimes fall through. Children will learn nothing if they don’t want to, least of all those who have lost someone. You did kill his friend.”

“Was I to let him live and just let him go back to Florence and da Vinci?”

“It was an option,” she said mildly. Riario looked away at that, almost ashamed. Seeing the familiar look of shame on his face, Zita continued on. “But what’s done is done, and if you have a snake around your neck you kill it. Help the boy grieve and he will trust you.”

Riario scoffed at that and said, “At our first meeting I tortured the boy.”

“At our first meeting I was given to you as a gift, yet I wanted to come out here with you. Give him time.” The was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she said, “You _certainly_ have da Vinci in common, you could talk about him.”

Riario gave a little grimace. “Please. The boy is obsessed with the artista I’m…” he waved his hand vaguely, trailing off uncertainly. He couldn’t honestly think of an adjective for how he was with da Vinci which would wipe that almost smug look off Zita’s face. Just then the meal bell rang and Riario cleared his throat and said, “Are you hungry?”

“I am in a time of fasting, but I will go fetch you a meal,” Zita replied, smiling and heading off before Riario could stop her.

He sat down on the steps leading up to the aft deck, tucked against the rail to stay out of the way. Sitting there, he let himself relish the spray of the sea against his face, letting it clear his thoughts which were ridiculously full of da Vinci. _Nico and I do not have the same fixation,_ he thought forcefully. _He admires the artista, I but need the tools he has…_

Zita returned then, a small plate of food in her hands, and sat down down a step from him, tucked against the opposite rail to leave enough space for someone to pass between them. It was the same gruel and biscuits as always, and Riario was still suspicious of the biscuits after having found a worm in one--despite how he had been assured the worms were harmless and actually one of the few bits of meat to be found on a ship once they went through the meat provisions. Not wanting to immediately eat while that memory was fresh in his mind he asked, “What time of fasting are you in? Lent only just finished.”

“Yes,” Zita acknowledged. “Yes it did. But the Fast of the Cross only just began. My country fasts more than you do.”

“I thought you converted.” She merely smiled at him. “I know you did, I was there--you were baptized.”

“I had already been baptized, and I renew those vows each year at Timkat. Why do you think I agreed to be baptized at Epiphany? We have ritual re-baptisms each year. I just took advantage of the situation.”

Despite himself, Riario was impressed. Using someone else’s faith to further your own goals? He himself had done such things. But Zita hadn’t been malicious, merely used what was available for her to follow her own traditions. “Clever,” he finally said. “Very clever. But what you did could easily be called heresy. We each only have one baptism.”

“There were Italians at the court of the King of Kings, I have heard your warnings of heresy before. I already was Christian, I would not give up my traditions any more than you would, had you come to Abyssinia and been forced to stay.”

Riario had nothing to say to that, for he knew his own stubbornness and strength of faith. The very thought of deserting his traditions made him despair and grow angry, and much as it irked him to think Zita did not follow his faith exactly, he could but only admire her steadfast loyalty to her own. “That is correct. I would have fought hard for my own beliefs.” He spooned some food in his mouth.

Zita smiled a little again, fondly regarding Riario across from her. “I know,” she said softly. “I’ve seen you do it.” She hardly dared to look him in the eye at her proclamation--one she had made without thinking. _Where did that come from?_ she asked herself, puzzling over the warm bubble of affection which rested in her chest when she looked at her count.

“What do you mean?” Riario asked, his brows furrowing.

“I--just…” Zita stuttered, searching for the words to explain. “With your--the Holy Father, your Grace.” She pressed her lips together in embarrassment; she did not want him to know how much she-a slave, not even a servant-had grown to sympathize with him. _Surely he does not want my sympathy,_ she thought, _though he needs it._

“There is nothing to fight,” he said tightly, and Zita’s heart twisted to hear it. “My beliefs are those the Holy Father embodies.” He stirred the spoon through the gruel, saying nothing more and avoiding Zita’s gaze.

“Forgive me, my lord. I presumed and I should not have,” Zita said, worrying the hem of her sleeve. “I still find myself speaking my mind where I ought not to. I was the one who always got my brother and I into trouble for it. Aunt Rahel always said I would be a good military wife, since never knew when to stop talking. She always thought the only reason men go to war is to hear someone aside from their wives telling them what to do, that wives talk their husbands right out their homes and onto the battlefield. She never liked the military, that’s why she marries a priest, I think.” Realizing how much she had said, Zita grew incredibly embarrassed and bowed her head, resolutely staring at the deck as if it would erase all she had said. _Why did I say so much?_ she thought.

So focused was she on the ground she did not see the look Riario gave her. Finally, after sorting through her story he asked, “You...have a brother?”

“Four years my junior,” she affirmed. “His name is Demelew. I--I don’t know if he yet lives.”

“And your aunt married a priest.”

“My uncle Haile Michael, yes.” She felt awful and wanted to leave for she had said far too much. And yet she was confused. For Riario was asking her questions of her family, almost as if he cared.

“And your aunt thought you’d be a good military wife because you talk too much?” Riario smiled a little, as if he did not know what to say. “Did she just not understand the position of women married to soldiers, or did she not understand you?”

Zita glanced up to see the count staring intently at her, a look of bemusement on his face. “My lord?” she asked.

“Well the last thing you want in a military wife is a propensity to talk too much, whether or not she is privy to private information she will end up knowing something and you don’t want her to be divulging information.” Setting aside his food, he folded his hands as though in prayer, chin on his hands, and leaned forwards. “But you--well I know you’re not my wife--” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, “but you’re a servant. You’d know as much as a wife--” he cleared his throat again, but refused to give in to looking away like he wanted to, “and you’ve been far from detrimental to me. I--I’d trust you over any of my other servants to keep a secret…” he finally gave in and looked away from her, feeling foolish for having admitted as much to her. _Honestly, he thought angrily, the point of this mission is to prove to Father that you are_ not _a fool, not the other way around. She’s a_ servant, _you shouldn’t be having these...complications._

“I was a different girl before I was enslaved, my lord,” was all Zita said, breaking Riario from his reverie. She said it without resentment or anger or sadness, just as a statement of fact to be accepted.

Even so, Riario felt a pang of guilt. Of course, he hadn’t been her enslaver, but even so he felt himself responsible for any suffering which had come to her. “How do you mean?” he asked quietly--so much so that even Zita, used to his low tones, had to nearly lean forward to catch his words.

“I was not wise. I was childish and loud and ignorant of the world. I knew love, but not all kinds.” She glanced away at saying so, but continued on. “I did not know the truth of the world and I did not know myself.

“When I was a young girl, I lived in Debre Berhan where the King of Kings resided. My father was often away, he was an officer and the King of Kings waged many wars. When he was gone, my mother would take my brother and I to pray for his safe return, and when he came back he brought stories with him that he had heard from azmaris. We were never happier, my brother and I, than when he came home. He would tell us the tales he had heard, all about animals and brave and clever men and women. I would hang on his every word and my world was made of the milk and honey of those stories. I did not think that my life could be any different from them because I did not know life could be any different.

“But then, when my father was away, my mother took my brother and I on a pilgrimage to Lalibela--our new Jerusalem. Thousands go, my father was sure we would be safe and let us go. But then the slavers came. My homeland prospers off slavery, the King of Kings and his mother both turned blind eyes to it, so long as it funded their wars. My mother hid us when they attacked our caravan, and I remember praying my father would come and vanquish these evil men and take us home. But life is not like the stories he told. We were found and taken, my mother first for she wanted to hide that we were there. I can only remember thinking that God would save us from that horror.” She shook her head slowly and her voice grew quiet. “Those men attacked a caravan of pilgrims, I was certain that God would do something. But He didn’t, and I watched my mother and brother be sold away from me. I never saw them again. I do not wish to imagine what my father must have felt when he came home-if he ever came home at all…”

Riario was silent, amazed that even as she spoke, not a tear escaped her eyes, not a wrinkle creased her brow, though her voice had turned sad and unsteady. Had she truly grown so numb to the memory?

“I prayed every night that God would deliver me from the Hell I had been thrown into, and by the time I was taken to Asilah I stopped believing he could, especially when it was conquered and I was taken to Europe. I had seen life for what it was and I had relearned how to live with it. I believe, in the end, God delivered me twice in ways I had not expected.”

“And what were those?” asked Riario, hardly caring to worry about propriety.

“He made you my master--I do not think I could have asked for a better one--and He taught me about life. My little bubble of bliss was just that: a bubble.” Zita looked away, embarrassed to have admitted as much to him, who surely could not care less about anything she had said. She made to apologize, but Riario interrupted her.

“I think you give me too much credit,” he said. “I have not been quite the master you deserve…”

“You understand what is is to serve, that puts you far above any other master I could have had. I have met many heads of state in serving you, and not one of them would have taught me any Italian.” Fair enough, Riario had been friendly with Duke Alfonso of Calabria, and if one of his slaves couldn’t understand him they would get a beating, not lessons.

“You say your childhood…” he started, before stopping and trying again. “Your...bubble, as you say, once it was gone, have you not been happy since?” It was a stupid question and he knew it, either forcing her to admit her misery or lying to say she was naught but happy. He certainly couldn’t imagine how she could be so, given all that had happened to her.

“It hasn’t been joyful every moment,” she said slowly. “But I have had...I have been happy enough.” Her face was hot as she said so, embarrassed.

“Good. I--I know...I don’t want you to suffer unnecessarily. Not if I could do something.” Zita smiled to hear it, a golden bubble of affection swelling up in her chest. Uncertain though he sounded, it was earnest, at least so far as she could tell.

He wasn’t like other noblemen, she reflected as he turned his attention to his food and avoided her eyes. Others could be pompous, dressed in flamboyant displays of wealth, but he was a man of very simple tastes who didn’t show off his wealth beyond the expensive formal blacks of Spain. She had never seen him sport a single thread of gold, no matter if he was going to a party or to Easter Mass, when most liked to show off. _He’s honest,_ she thought. _In all he does, he’s honest about it. That’s more than I can say for anyone else._

She had heard before that his father had been unknown until he had proven he had much to offer the church (and for that alone she hoped much more for the Patriarch above the Pope) and she liked to think Riario’s honesty came from humble birth. What a surprise it had been to hear through the servants’ gossip that he had only been given his title, not born to it! She liked to think that was why he was kind to her, for he too had been lesser-at least until his father had been named Pope. At least, that was what the rational part of her liked to think. The part of her that loved the story of Adiberga and her riddling and magical rich husband hoped her count’s kindness was born of perhaps something else. _Stop that, she thought, stop thinking that. It leads to nothing but delusion thinking that._

Yet Riario was beautiful, everyone knew it--each maid she had met would sigh after him at least once and rumor had it at least one member of the Guard did so as well--and no small number of families pushed their sisters and daughters at him. Yet he never smiled at them beyond what politeness demanded, she had only seen that fond twist of lips directed to her. It made it harder to stop her thoughts and to staunch the affection that bubbled up in her, knowing that out of any woman in Italy he only smiled that way towards her. A slave receiving such a look where a duchess could only hope to see it!

 _It means nothing,_ she told herself for the thousandth time. _Stop putting meaning where there is none._ Yet all the same a corner of her mind thought it prudent to remind her, _But he cares about your happiness, he looked sad to hear your past, he defended you from that sailor. He listens to you where no one else will. You saw how flustered he got about saying you know as much about him as a wife would._ All she could think in response was: _Shut up._

“Zita?” Riario’s voice cut through her thoughts and she blinked, blushing to realize that she had unknowingly been staring at his face. “Is there something the matter?” His eyebrows creased slightly and he wondered if perhaps he had said too much and made her uncomfortable. _After all, you’ve quite crossed the bounds of social propriety, he scolded himself. She did too, he argued back at himself. Yes, but you’re the master; you ought to set the example-----she’s the servant she ought know better-----but you’ve never treated her like a proper servant, let alone a proper slave, have you?-----No…-----Why?_ The question rose unbidden in his mind and he refused to explore any possible answers. He was relieved when Zita replied:

“No my lord. I--I just remembered something I must...sort out. Please excuse me.” Riario nodded, a wave of his hand acknowledging and dismissing her. Watching her leave, he was half glad to be finished with the conversation which had raised so many unexpected questions, and half disappointed to be denied her presence, a sensation he denied himself to explore further.

 

* * *

 

Vanessa looked outside the window of her room at the marketplace below, watching the rhythm of the city gradually fall back into place after the catastrophe of the Pazzi Conspiracy. It seemed so surreal to her that everything could just return back to normal, as though nothing had happened and nothing was changed. _For them,_ she supposed, _nothing really did change. This was just a disturbance of the peace, but everything went back to the way it was before._ She rested her head against the frame and tried to blink away the tears that had settled in the corners of her eyes. It was one thing for the people to have loved and admired Giuliano the way a people could, and to mourn him in their way, but it was another thing for her. Her hands moved to her stomach and she sniffed. Down in the piazza, a little boy skipped in front of his father, chatting endlessly in his small voice, and she had to look away.

At that moment someone knocked on her door and she wiped away the one tear that had fallen, calling, “Who is it?”

“Only me.”

 _Andrea._ “Come in.”

The maestro entered with a plate of cakes and what looked like hot wine. “I thought you might be hungry; I haven’t seen you downstairs all day.”

“Were you waiting for me?” Vanessa asked, trying a little smile.

Andrea returned the smile and said, “Perhaps. I wanted to be sure you were alright.”

Vanessa nodded and sat down at the small table with Andrea, accepting the pastry he offered her, though she just turned it over in her hands rather than eating it.

“It was a brave thing of you to do, telling Lorenzo about the child,” Andrea said. “Why did you do it?”

“He needed hope. Florence needed hope. It would have been selfish of me to keep it a secret, after all this city has done for me.”

Andrea nodded, a look of pride in his eyes. “You have ever been so reasonable and selfless. We are all lucky to have you.”

Vanessa smiled back, still just turning her pastry over in her hands. “What do you think they’ll do now?”

Andrea shook his head. “I cannot say. I am no politician. Perhaps they will do nothing.”

“I do not think so. I carry all their hopes of an heir and the resulting stability.” She put her pastry back on the tray and looked back towards the window through which a spring breeze blew the stench of people and the scents of the city and the warmth of the changing seasons.

Andrea reached across and grabbed her hand comfortingly. “You must allow yourself to grieve for him,” he said quietly.

Vanessa shook her head slowly. “Life just goes on. It doesn’t stop to let you grieve. There is so much else I have to think about, so much that just forgets about him.” She bit her lip and her vision grew blurry with tears. “How am I supposed to grieve properly when I have to move on? But how can I move on when I still feel like he should be here?” For the first time since she saw Giuliano stabbed to death and held him dying on the cathedral floor, she cried.

Without letting go of her hand, Andrea came to her side, hugging her to him. She cried into his shoulder, staining his shirt with tears. For a long while they stayed as such, Andrea holding Vanessa, even after her sobs had subsided and she just sniffed. Finally it was she who broke the silence.

“I know I have grieved before, but I have never felt this...” she trailed off, uncertain if there even was a word to describe the feeling in her chest, the sharp edged gaping hole Giuliano’s death had left.

“You loved him, and you carry his child. I should wonder if you did not feel this way.”

“Will it go away?”

“Eventually the pain will dull, yes.”

Vanessa leaned away and looked up at Andrea’s face, taking comfort in his familiar, fatherly face. “Will I forget him?” she asked, her voice small as she asked. The idea of forgetting the playful glint in his eyes hurt more than she ever wanted to admit, and she was frightened that it would happen despite how hard she clung to her memories.

“No. Never. You will always miss him, and he will always be in your heart, and remembering will never stop hurting. But it will not always feel like this, and getting on with life won’t feel so wrong.” Vanessa nodded and wiped her tears away. “You are lucky, you know.” She gave Andrea an incredulous look, for she felt far from it. “You may not feel it right now, but the fact that you hurt so much is a true testament to how much you cared for this young lord, and not many people are fortunate enough to know that kind of bond the two of you seemed to share.” Andrea offered a small conciliatory smile. “You will understand soon.”

“I hope so,” Vanessa said, laying a hand on her stomach and resting her head on Andrea again, still staring at the window.

Andrea put his arms back around her and she sighed, remembering how beautiful the day had seemed when she awoke next to Giuliano. It both soothed her heart and twisted it painfully to remember his face on her pillow in the light spring sun. In that moment, she thought she understood what Andrea meant about her being lucky, but this suffering was worse than she could ever have imagined, and she was torn between gratefulness for the time she had had with Giuliano and despair for having lost him so soon.

As Andrea held her, Vanessa leaned into the embrace, letting her thoughts wander back into memories. Whatever the Medicis would decide had to be done with her, she would deal with, but now she only remembered the man she had loved. And yet, a cautious thought passed through her mind, wondering how Andrea knew so much about losing loved ones.

 

* * *

 

“We need a heading or we will have to turn around!” snapped Captain Denali, hitting his fist on the table.

“We will not be turning around,” said Riario, his voice carefully measured. “This is a mission given by the Holy Father, and we _will_ be seeing it through.” Carefully keeping his thoughts away from what would happen if he _did_ have to go back and face his father, he continued, “We will have a heading yet, that I assure you. As it is, we will keep sailing West.”

“Your Grace, the crew is not happy,” said Filippeschi. “We are sailing with no heading, a prisoner that still wastes more food than he eat, and a woman? If we keep on like this, I estimate no more that two weeks before mutiny.”

“Do you know who goes first in mutinies?” asked the Captain. “Command, and then supercargo. Everyone in this room _will_ die if there is mutiny, I promise that. Your prisoner too, no matter how young he is. Your woman--honestly, being killed with us will be the best that could happen to her. My crew are hard-workers, but I don’t pretend them to be anything other than what they are. Women are bad luck on a ship, but I would not put it past them to keep her to pass among themselves.”

Riario went very still at that, staring down at the maps, his brows drawn. Thoughts racing, he folded his lips remembering Zita’s words not two weeks earlier of how his father had used and hurt her, and each time he had done nothing to protect her when he could have. Finally he said softly, “In two days you will have your heading, be it to the west or back to Pisa.” He had one last chance, one last option. He had tried to keep her uninvolved, for anyone who got caught up in this Book mess seemed to get hurt, but there was nothing for it.

“Thank you,” said the captain. “Come on, Filippeschi; we’ve got a crew to placate.”

Alone in the darkening cabin, Riario let his head rest in his hands. If Zita couldn’t read this, no matter the legend’s origin, they would have to return to Italy. And if they did that, his father would be furious that he had abandoned Rome’s cause, and there would be no escaping that fury. Taking a deep breath, he rose to find Zita.

Zita was sitting quietly in the cabin she and Riario shared, awaiting his return. Lately she had spent little time up on the deck without him at his request, because of the suspicion and lust of the sailors. He entered the cabin and went straight to his desk of codes and mysteries with an air of preoccupation. Zita noticed the brooding look on his face, the way his lips always folded when he was thinking desperately for a way to please his father.  She sat up straighter and watched him with a keen eye, unwilling to speak out of turn even now that she was free.

Placing the legend by the other maps, Riario stared down at them, trying to think of a way to ask her for help without frightening her too much. Finally he took the legend in hand and called, “Zita, come here, would you?” It was difficult, thinking of a way to tell her the legend was of human skin; but, he would not leave her in the dark about it, for it would be cruel to let her discover so later.

“What is it, Your Grace?” Zita stood and advanced nearer, peering down at his charts. She was no explorer, nor even learnèd, but some of the symbols she saw upon the canvas were familiar.

Seeing her gaze rest on the disturbing legend, he gave a small smile and said, “It’s unsettling isn’t?” It certainly was for him, anyways. “One of your kinsmen had it inscribed in his flesh for safekeeping--little good that it did him.” The last he added under his breath, for though he may not have known the exact circumstances of the Abyssinian Son of Mithras’ death, He knew the man had perished; and though he doubted da Vinci had killed him for this map, Riario’s instincts told him not to toss out the theory until it was proven otherwise. “I believe it’s a legend, a key to reading a map. This map. Can you decipher it?” he asked, trying to keep the small hope out of his voice. If she could, they could seek the Book and bring it back to Rome to the approval of the Pope; if she couldn’t, they could only seek mercy from a man who followed a God of plagues and floods and filial sacrifices and not one that John had written to be love itself.

Zita moved closer, very aware of how close she was to Riario. He almost never invited anyone so close to his person, and for a moment she let herself be distracted by this, by the fact that he was looking at her with hope and desperation. The thought that he needed her excited her, and the attraction which she has been feeling for him mounted to a peak. She came back to herself, hoping that she had not been too expressive and touched the maps. Forcing herself to try to focus, she said, “Much of it is beyond my understanding. But these” she ran her fingers over the dark canvas “these are written in the ancient Ge’ez script of my people. They are numbers. Thirteen; one thousand six hundred and thirty one…” Zita glanced up at Riario, just the way his jaw clenched in concentration thrilled her. _Focus,_ she thought. “Seventy two; three hundred and forty one--” Riario gasped ever so slightly and Zita had to try not to smile at how endearing she found him when he understood something, “over six hundred and twenty five.”

Riario smiled, for once not caring at all if it was too large or too expressive or even who saw it, so palpable was the relief. They could sail on, they didn’t have to return, he could do what his father had commanded of him and find the Book. And with the Book in hand...knowing he was getting ahead of himself, he said half to himself and half to Zita, “The astrolabe. The numbers indicate latitude and longitude. Captain Denali will be pleased.” And more importantly, he acknowledged to himself, mutiny could be avoided and those he had placed beneath the executioner’s axe had been able to move their necks from the block. Zita and Nico were both safe for the moment. And if he smiled to know those he had endangered were safe, who was to know?

The smile. Riario rarely smiled-genuinely, purely smiled. Zita felt her heart give out in her chest, for even more rare than Riario smiling was Riario smiling when he knew someone could see him. He must have felt very secure with Zita, she knew, even--could it be?--affectionate of her. _Perhaps,_ she thought, daring to let her imagination wonder. _Perhaps he could be feeling the way I feel?_ Before she lost her nerve or second-guessed herself, she stepped back from the table, asking, “And...what would please _you_?” She studied his face for a reaction, her eyes fixed on his expressive mouth.

He looked up at Zita sharply, thoughts casting back months previous as he did. His father had first...requested her because the Holy Father knew he cared for her in some way, even before he truly knew. It had been his punishment for speaking out of turn--he remembered so he would never do it again. He had done it since, yes, but the first instance had been punished as it had been because he cared. He knew he didn’t deserve affection or love, he hadn’t done anything near enough to earn it and he knew that. It didn’t make it easier to say, though…

Zita had been through too much for him to take advantage of her; if she was offering what it seemed she was (he hadn’t lied to da Vinci about knowing desire when he saw it, after all), it would be no better than what his father did to her. He knew he had to be punished to become a better son, but why did his father have to do it by hurting Zita?

“The Bible counsels us against indulging ourselves,” he said, kicking himself as he did. He had all but admitted he did what she offered, and he knew he shouldn’t admit his wants.

Zita’s heart spasmed. So he _did_ care for her in that way. And in that moment of realization, she determined that she would not lose him after she had spent so many months wondering if she could ever even _get_ him. “Men of the Bible took their pleasures,” she said. She knew he was not his father--not by a long shot--but she knew men, and knew men of the Bible, and she knew Riario. She conjured up a tale of her people’s history, one which everyone knew and which she could use to convince him. “King Solomon visited the Kingdom of Sheba, my homeland of Abyssinia. There he met the beautiful queen and invited her to a banquet at his palace.” She stepped slowly out of her shoes, eyes not leaving Riario’s face. “She asked Solomon not to take her by force.” With great care and gentleness in her actions, she reached up to her shoulders and started to pull off her over-gown. “He agreed, so long as she would take nothing from his home.” Part of her wanted little more than to go to Riario and kiss the sadness out of his eyes, but she knew better. _He must know he wants this as well and accept it. Otherwise he will find himself to be little better than his father, though he has so much more..._ She guided the over-gown to the ground sensually, slowly.

It was from pure strength of will that Riario kept his eyes on her face and did not follow the slow paths her hands followed. He was proud of that--he was. He was proud enough of that that he was willing to ignore how he was not able to calm his heart as it began to speed up. _I was not expecting this when I set her free,_ he thought a little desperately, for he was unsure of how to react. A part of him told him to stop her, to not let things go any further, while another part told him to go help her out of her clothes and accept what she offered and he did not know which part to listen to.

Incredibly aware of her eyes on him, he managed only, “Seems an easy vow to keep.” He could admit, he was intrigued by where the story was going. Perhaps it was a failing of his, prompting her to continue as he warred with himself what part of himself to listen to--to finish or reciprocate--but prompt her he did.

Zita could see his resolve failing in the way his jaw tensed and his eyes remained determinedly upon her face. _And yet he does not stop me,_ she thought, moving to untie her skirt. She knew he wanted her as much as she wanted him, so she said, “But when she awoke at midnight the queen was... _thirsty_.” At the last word, Zita lowered her voice to a  sigh and dropped her skirt.

When her skirt fell, leaving her only in her chemise, there was no lack of contradictory voices in his head, each calling for a different course of action. He wanted, perhaps more than he had ever wanted anything, to go to her but a life firmly entrenched in the church had left him certain that chastity was necessary for true devotion.

His hands closed into fists, nails digging into his palms in an attempt to bring himself back under control, even glancing away a moment. But all he could think of was Zita standing before him in a state of dress that barely deserved the word so close to totally without clothing was she, and of helping that last layer of linen fall away. _And here I thought vows of chastity would be easy to uphold, should I ever take them,_ he thought.

Zita carried on with her story, wondering how long it would take to break his resolve. “And when she reached for water, Solomon appeared, warning that she was breaking her oath.” She reached for the ties on her chemise and began to undo them slowly, purposefully, painfully aware that her own resolve lowered along with Riario’s. She longed to touch him, feel him, and the attraction was almost uncontrollable.

Riario found himself standing without having made the decision to do so, and moving around the desk. What he was going to do he was still uncertain of.

It was hard to focus, he found, with Zita in the state she was in, and his mind could not think of anything to say. The only thing it supplied as he came closer was, “Nothing in the desert is as precious as water.” Standing before her now, he was uncertain what to do with his hands, so he held himself perfectly still to cover that fact.

This close, Zita could see the conflict between his heart and his mind. He was so close, he had but to reach out and he would be touching her. It was utterly intoxicating. “She chose to drink, setting Solomon free from his promise not to take her.” She pulled the sleeves of her chemise down, willing Riario to take her. “And they spent the night together willingly.” She dropped her chemise, standing bared before Riario, and still he did not move. _He is so pious. But perhaps if I bear my body and my soul...perhaps he needs to understand why I do this?_ Before her courage could desert her, Zita added, “The Queen of Sheba fell in love with Solomon and she converted my homeland to the Lord God of Israel without regret.” _If he does not see now..._ She watched his face for a reaction, heart racing, hardly daring to hope that she had truly been right all along--that he may return her love.

 _Love,_ he thought, thoughts oddly detached in a way. _She can’t have--does she--but--love?_ His heart began to race ever faster as it began to climb up, choking him as it entered his throat.

He had never thought anyone would apply love of all things to him. It didn’t make sense that she should care in return. But it hadn’t made sense she should have bartered to come with him either. And if it was love she felt, that may have been the reason why she abandoned so easily everything she had known to sail to an unknown lad. But it didn’t make sense!

_Solomon’s Song of Songs--I am black but beautiful--why should she be the Queen? Why should he be Solomon? But surely--but it--love?_

So caught was he that Zita had all but declared that she loved him, his mind swirled around in circled until he managed, “That…” what he wanted to say escaped him, for his thoughts kept knotting up. Love, scripture, songs, She and He, Solomon, the begots and their casual handling of all these emotions, Jacob’s twelve children, on and on. _Solomon’s knot,_ he thought desperately, twistedly amused. But out of all the strings knotted close he could only pull out one thread, and though he knew this wasn’t a correct response all he could say was, “That story is not in the Bible.”

Zita had to fight to keep from laughing outright and spoiling the mood. She could tell how close she had brought him to the brink, and she needed him to just fall… “Not everything is, my Lord.”

Riario opened his mouth as if making to speak, but no words escaped him. He was at war with himself, but one side quickly triumphed. The unhidden hope in her regard silenced the part of him that demanded he should not touch her, and gave strength to the part that reminded him that while he worked for the Church he was not part of it. For that he had freedoms all his cardinal-cousins were denied.

He had cared for Zita longer that he had understood what those emotions were--perhaps even loved. And when she had told him that not only did she love him, but that she was willing to receive his love in return...After all it was she who initiated this. And he knew enough that he could recognize his own desire for her.

Decision made, he silenced the strict voices of his faith and pulled off his coat with new passion. Tossing it aside carelessly, he sent with it any thought of being an instrument of God and let himself be--for the first time in years--only a man. Close behind the coat followed his shirt, leaving him as bare as he had ever been before any woman.

He was aware she was fully nude while he still wore trousers and boots, but he had no desire to waste time to take them off, and instead bent his head to kiss her, hands touching her sides gently as if she were a precious treasure.

Zita knew Riario to be a passionate man, yet even so she was almost caught off guard by his sudden action. Had it not been she who initiated the situation, she would have been wholly unprepared for the kiss; as it was, she  had barely had a moment to admire Riario’s shirtless torso before he broke down and kissed her deeply, desperately. She sank into the kiss, letting herself get swept up in his passion, feeding off of his desire. In but moments the kiss grew into an explosive fervor and when Riario moved to pick Zita up, she did not object, jumping willingly, clinging to his torso with her legs. He pushed her up against the wall of the ship, one hand upon her leg, the other on her back, his grip firm but delicate and it made Zita shiver in anticipation. She curled one hand in his hair and she heard him moan slightly against her lips when she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, not even caring to be subtle or gentle with him anymore. She ground her hips against his, clinging to him desperately, just as though he were her source of water in the desert from her story, and Riario moved them to the bed, placing her down with such care. He leaned over her, breathing heavily, and for a moment, he looked as though he were going to say something, but Zita kissed him before he could second-guess himself and her roaming hands found the laces of his trousers. She helped him out of them, and in that moment they both succumbed completely to their passions.

 


End file.
